Fracture
by M.E. Vaughan
Summary: "I sometimes wondered if, despite it all, any of us actually got out from Under the Mountain." Lucien has not recovered from the events Under the Mountain. As Feyre crumbles into herself, Lucien struggles to protect her amidst battling his own demons and his growing fear of Tamlin and Ianthe. Lucien-Centric. Feyre-Lucien Friendship. PTSD fic. Set between ACOTAR and ACOMAF
1. Chapter 1

**Because I needed to write something that excused/explained Lucien's behaviour in ACOMAF. This is Based between the books and fic examines what was happening in Lucien's head during those months, and why he wasn't able to save Feyre. Some lovely Lucien-whumping. Mentions of sexual abuse and torture.**

 **Disclaimer: _A Court of Thorns and Roses & A Court of Mist and Fury_ is copyrighted to Sarah J. Maas. I am simply using these characters for** **story-telling purposes.**

* * *

I could feel Feyre's eyes on me again over breakfast. I stared at my plate, pretending to be absorbed with the fruit I was cutting. These days, I wasn't sure whether it was harder to look at Feyre, or avoid her. The wells of misery flowed either way.

She didn't look away, staring and waiting for me to raise my head. I didn't, even though the apple slices I was cutting were now so ludicrously small I might as well be dicing it.

"Any smaller Lucien," she said, and I repressed a shudder, "and your breakfast is going to disappear."

It seemed she wasn't going to let me avoid her today. I looked up at her then, tried for a smile. Tried to make it look like a joke. "Some of us like to eat with elegance, Feyre," I said. "Rather than just fitting whatever we can into our mouths."

Hollowed out eyes, smudged with purple from sleeplessness, the smell of vomit hidden beneath clean clothes and perfume, cheeks that had no colour underneath Ianthe's carefully applied rouge. But she smiled, smiled in that way that said my joke – however cruel, however pitiful – had just for a moment reminded her of a better time.

"Bastard," she said, and I widened my own smile.

I preferred it when she called me bastard, than friend. Bastard was my title when she'd been happy, when she'd been human—

 _Amarantha flung her body to the ground. Bones crunched, her body caving in on itself, blood hot and heavy in the air. Tamlin begged, as Feyre lost the strength to scream. And then the surge of power came over us._

 _"_ _Love," Feyre said._

 _And crack. The sound of her neck snapping reverberated through my body. Rhysand began to scream – Why, why was he screaming? Why was he in pain? – and Tamlin roared, pain and fury and pure bloody murder._

 _And I saw Feyre, limp on the floor. Feyre dead. Tamlin sobbing. Just like…_

 _Just like…_

I snapped myself out of my memories with a sharp jolt. The sudden movement caused Feyre to jump – she was always jumpy these days; I saw the way she froze when she caught sight of me down corridors, her eyes on my hair. I wondered what she saw in those few seconds.

No, no I didn't. I knew who she saw.

"What's wrong?" she asked, and I put a hand to my eye; the easiest excuse.

"Stupid thing is getting stuck again," I said, and then nodded down to her hand. She'd crushed another fork. "How many is that now?"

"Dammit," Feyre cursed. Tamlin – oblivious, strong, as unwilling to see as me – looked up from where he'd been eating. He smiled sweetly at her.

"Someday Feyre, you're going to need to explain why you have such a terrible vendetta against my cutlery."

Feyre shot him a look, and I saw the love in her eyes, so intense, so deep and forgiving. I felt sick looking at it, sick looking at her.

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

 _Don't apologise,_ I wanted to beg. _Tell him he's a bastard too. Tell him to teach you how to manage your strength and reflexes. Tell him to notice how much you're wasting away._

The fork in her hand was bent into nothing, crushed by her strong fingers. Fae fingers. High Fae. Not dead – but alive. Alive and well.

Alive and…

I stood, abandoning my food. "I'm going to go get ready, Tamlin."

Tamlin tore his eyes away from Feyre – blind eyes – and dropped them to my plate. Feyre looked too and frowned.

"You massacred that apple, and you're not even going to eat it?" she asked.

 _Like you can talk,_ I wanted to yell at her. _You should be powerful, you should be strong. But you're thinner than a wraith. You're thinner than the starving human girl who came here months ago._

"Honestly," I drawled, leaning on my chair, "the sight of you two being lovey-dovey with each other makes me sick enough to wish I was back in the Autumn Court."

Tamlin rolled his eyes with a huff, and a barely disguised smile. I took that as my invitation to leave, without suspicion.

"Lucien—" Feyre rose, as I made for the door. She'd been eyeing me because she wanted something. I knew what. I knew what she was going to ask. I hurried my step and was gone before she could speak.

I made it to my chambers before I was sick.

* * *

 _Blood on the floor. Someone laughing. Someone screaming. Hands binding me down – my power bound down._

I shook my head, my face rested in my arms, leaning against the bowl of the toilet. The images flashed again in my mind, interweaving until I couldn't tell the difference any more.

Feyre lying dead. Lyanna lying dead. Tamlin screaming. Or me.

I flushed the toilet, sitting back, cursing myself. Perhaps the worst part was that Feyre didn't even look anything like Lyanna. Where Feyre's hair was blazoned gold, Lyanna's had been a soft, shimmering chestnut. And Feyre's eyes, blue steel and ice, were nothing like the warm autumnal hazel that I had fallen so desperately inlove with.

And yet, when I saw Feyre, I was reminded of Tamlin's sobs, of his utter despair, and my own came bubbling up to the surface.

Lyanna screaming my name, begging me to help her, as my father descended down on the woman I loved. No pity in his eyes, no room for mercy. No consideration. Like he was actually one of the Night Court in disguise, parading in Autumn colours. Like he was a nightmare incarnate.

Feyre had come back. But Lyanna –

 _Oh Cauldron, Lyanna…_

There weren't enough parts of her left to have brought back. They ripped her apart, piece by piece, until her screams tore her throat, and she choked on her blood.

And I watched, and I watched, and I watched as my beloved was ripped limb from limb, sliced and cut, and torn apart. Like Amarantha's victims. My father and brothers really had fitted neatly into her Court.

 _I should have killed him,_ I thought viciously. _I wanted to kill him. Kill them all._

But whilst my sobs and begging hadn't been enough to give my father pause, my mother's tears, her pleading eyes had driven me away, driven me straight to the Spring Court, with three bastard brothers on my back.

I would have been content to have died trying to slice my father's throat. And I would have died – I knew that. I was nothing to him, just a speck, the youngest son of a cruel High Lord who would rip a screaming girl apart just because I loved her.

But my Mother had always loved me more than any of the others – this, I had always known – and I knew she couldn't watch me die by his hand. Knew it would kill her too. So I'd left, not to save myself, but to spare her heart-break.

Yes. I'd left.

Tamlin had killed Amarantha. Tamlin had gotten Feyre back.

I would have sold my soul for that. For my Father impaled, and Lyanna in my arms again; safe and warm. I would have gone Under the Mountain for it. I would have lived Under the Mountain for it.

Someone knocked on my door. My whole body stilled. I could smell Feyre's scent – Cauldron, Tamlin's scent was all over her now as well. They'd probably done it on the table, after I'd left.

 _Did she try to talk to him? Did she try to ask him to take her out? Did he fuck her in response, fuck her like nothing had changed, fuck her until she stopped talking?_

Feyre knocked a little louder. I splashed water on my face, and went to answer the door.

Bruised lips from kissing, skirt slightly twisted, tiny curls loose from her bound hair. I could see the mark of him on her, and the love in her eyes, still shining, still so full, and heavy, and guilty.

It gave me a headache.

"Feyre?" I asked, leaning against the door frame. "Did you enjoy…" I trained my eye at the collar of her dress, which had slipped over one shoulder. "Breakfast?"

Feyre noticed my gaze and corrected herself, covering the bites and signs of love making that peppered her skin. They'd heal in a few minutes, all evidence evaporated. Except for the smell; the smell of sex.

"You disappeared so suddenly."

"I sensed I wasn't wanted."

"Lucien…" Feyre dropped her gaze. "I'm sorry."

I was surprised. "What for?"

"It's...I just wonder if it doesn't hurt. To see us like this, when you…"

When I lost the woman I loved, like Tamlin. When I watched her die like Tamlin. But then Tamlin got his back, got his revenge, and I had to watch as he thanked my father for it – the murderer of the woman I loved – thanked him for bringing Feyre back.

"Good grief Feyre, if that sort of thing bothered me, I would have left the house months ago," I lied.

 _I can't blame you. You saved us. You saved us all; you beautiful, wonderful, drowning girl. I can't blame you for not dying, when she did. I can't blame you for the fact seeing your face is like a dagger to the heart._

She smiled at me, her heavy eyes so sleepless, so full of love for Tamlin, so desperately unhappy, that my headache got worse. We stared at each other, and she opened her mouth as if to say something.

For a moment, I felt like we were on the cusp of confessing. For a moment I thought she was about to tell me how much she now hated the colour red, that she saw blood in the paints she had forgotten, and Amarantha in my hair. For a moment I thought I was going to drag her into the room, and tell her that some nights, I woke still feeling Amarantha craving open my face, and that I hated being indoors, because I always felt like the roof was slowly sinking down toward me.

But neither of us spoke. We just stared at each other.

 _Save me_ , I felt her begging me. _Save me, please_.

 _I can't,_ I thought back. _I don't know how. I'm not strong enough. He won't listen to me. You need to speak. You need to tell him. You're the strong one, Feyre._

She'd asked me time and time again to take her out, begged me to tell Tamlin to give her some liberty, but it was useless. Even as I watched it kill her, even as I appealed to Tamlin, the words were always thick in my throat.

Because I could still hear Tamlin's sobs, tearing through me as he held her, Amarantha's blood on his clothes.

If I had my Lyanna back, what would I do keep her safe? I could feel Tamlin's emotions, his rage and his fear and his possessiveness; I knew them like they were my own, and it was hard to fight against something I understood so desperately.

 _But you're not Tamlin_ , I would always remind myself, and Feyre – _Cauldren, Feyre, you're so thin, you're so small –_ Feyre needed someone to help her.

And so I would speak on her behalf. I would beg Tamlin, snap over Ianthe – _traitorous bitch, beautiful temptress, false advisor –_ implore my High Lord to give Feyre the freedom she needed to heal. Implore my High Lord to realise that the needs of the human girl who had fallen in-love with him, were not the needs of the High Fae who had emerged victorious from Under the Mountain.

And on those occasions, when I started to make too much sense, when I pushed too hard, Tamlin would turn that rage on me – that rage he'd used to rip through Amarantha – and I would remember the feel of the whip on my back, the terrible sheering sensation of skin splitting, and my mouth would go dry.

I was not strong. I was not fast. I was not powerful. I was a coward, who froze up the moment the memories returned. I was afraid. And I couldn't save Feyre.

I hadn't even been able to save myself.

* * *

Ianthe was circling the room as the guests poured in, chattering among each other, glasses clinking. I stayed closed to Tamlin's side, trying to make sure there was always at least a few people between me and that zealot. She was a guest in his house, in his Court, so I couldn't object to her, but I'd made it clear that I would not abide her.

Wouldn't abide the way her eyes stroked over me, the way she would brush her hand up her thighs when I looked her way, the way she tried to make herself succulent, desirable, tried to awaken a thirst in me I would never willing extend to her. Even when I was obliged.

 _"_ _She's doing wonders for Feyre,"_ Tamlin had said, when I hissed in his ear that Ianthe was getting too comfortable with her position in this house. Getting too familiar with the people in it. _"Forgive her, Lucien. Forgive her for running away when Amarantha came. Any sensible person would have done it."_

I didn't have the courage to say that Ianthe fleeing was only one of a dozen reasons I loathed her.

 _"_ _I don't trust her,"_ I'd told Tamlin and he, tired of the conversation, tired from a whole night of patrolling in the woods, had snarled at me. Snarled and I'd backed off like a frightened child, my heart racing, my skin going clammy as the aggressive sound momentarily transported me back, back to the grunts of excetsion he'd made as he raised the whip over my back. Hard as he could, because being gentle would have given Amarantha ideas.

Would have tempted her to do other things.

In an odd moment of clarity, Tamlin's green eyes had sort of cleared, and he'd looked at me like he saw where I'd gone for that second, where my fears had taken me. Feyre had once described how her father, when they'd been cast into poverty, had given up and how his eyes had sort of clouded over from the world. I sometimes wondered if that wasn't what had happened to Tamlin.

I sometimes wondered if, despite it all, any of us had ever actually gotten out from Under the Mountain.

Across the room, Feyre had been abandoned by the drinks table. She was wearing a long gown with a puffed skirt, and frilly sleeves. Ianthe had chosen it well – it disguised how thin she was, even whilst making her look ridiculous.

I wondered what the human girl I'd known, in her tatty hunting clothes, would have thought of this High Fae doll if they ever met each other.

I watched as Feyre drained a glass of wine, putting down on the table, and tugging at her own fingers, her eyes blank as she gazed over the crowd. She didn't recognise anyone. She didn't know anyone.

I left Tamlin's side, cutting through the crowd toward her. Her eyes caught mine, and she froze for a second – as she always did when she spotted me from a distance. Then her eyes roamed over my face and I saw a vague spark of relief fill her gaze. I turned my stride into a saunter, smirking slightly at her as I came to her side. I gave her an exaggerated look up and down, whistling.

"Well Feyre; it's got to be said – a good scrubbing from Alis, and you don't look half bad."

Her mouth clenched slightly, like she was pretending to scowl. _Faerie bastard,_ her eyes screamed in a look that was, for an instant, so like the human from before my heart skipped a beat. And then she gave me a lazy smile, her eyes glinting wickedly. "Shame the same can't be said for your sense of humour," she drawled. "Alis could scrub that for _hours_ , and it'd still be duller than dirt."

I roared with laughter.

 _Yes, give me that sharp tongue. Show me some of you is still in there Feyre, buried under the rubble of the Mountain._

Feyre looked down at her dress. "Ianthe said it brought out the colour of my eyes," she said, swishing the skirt. Her mouth dipped with distaste; poofy skirts are much harder to run away in.

"Honestly," I said, leaning into her, "it makes you look a bit like tent."

Her gaze shot up to mine, different emotions flashing across her face. Humour, irritation, fear – why was she afraid? Her eyes darted over to Ianthe, who was flirting her way across the room, looking for the highest bidder.

"Ianthe gave it to me."

"She has poor taste," I said, with a growl.

"Do I look awful?"

"No." I turned back to her quickly, hearing the slight slump in her voice. All this, I knew, she was doing for Tamlin. The dresses, the jewellery, the parties… "You just…don't look like…"

"Me."

I nodded gravely. Feyre swallowed, running her hands over her skirt. She was wearing silky white gloves, to hide that horrendous tattoo Rhysand had given her.

 _What did he do to her?_ I thought, my stomach summersaulting. _What did he do to her when she was alone in that cell, and I was laid out, my back torn open, barely able to breath? What did he force her to endure, when I wasn't there to help?_

Rhysand had not come to claim her yet. Maybe he knew better now that Tamlin had his full power back…But then again, Rhysand had been strange around Feyre.

 _Tamlin's sobs. Rhysand's screams. Feyre's neck snapping, the sound reverberating through my body.  
Lyanna's bones snapping. Lyanna's sobs. My screams. My screams intermingled with hers._

"Why do you hate her so much?" Feyre jolted me from my thoughts, and for a moment I was confused.

Then I noticed she was watching Ianthe, and my jaw clenched. "I don't," I said stiffly. "She's a valuable asset to the Court."

 _Liar. Traitor. Zealot. User. Danger –_ I pushed those thoughts out of my mind, straying a glance to Tamlin. For Tamlin I would endure Ianthe. Even when I found her in my bed. Even when she slipped between my sheets, and told me Tamlin had said it was fine.

Tamlin had said she could.

Ianthe spotted Feyre and I together, and began to make her way across, flashing me a nauseating smile. I slipped away without a word, and was gone from the room before she reached Feyre.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed the previous chapter! You guys are awesome! Enjoy the update.  
** **Disclaimer: _A Court of Thorns and Roses & A Court of Mist and Fury_ is copyrighted to Sarah J. Maas. I am simply using these characters for** **story-telling purposes.**

* * *

Ianthe came to my bed again that night, and I dutifully lay back and let her do what she wanted. It was always easier in the dark: I'd made it clear I wouldn't—physically _couldn't_ —fuck her in the day-time. But when the darkness blinded me, it was easier to focus on the sensation of her, and forget everything else.

The wine also helped, wine of the sort that Feyre had once drunk, when Rhysand had paraded her infront of us, stripped of almost all her clothes. I knew – or at least suspected – that this had been a ploy to bait Tamlin, though whether to make him angry enough to destroy Amarantha, or just to make him hurt I wasn't sure. Rhysand, for all his abilities to break into people's minds, kept his own very guarded.

The smell of the wine, the first night Ianthe had brought it to me, had set my head reeling with uncomfortable memories, and I'd struggled to swallow it. But the comfortable, thoughtless blackness that followed meant that the second time, I gulped it down without issue. After that, I always had to drink before I could take her. The hangover the next day was always worth not having to remember her in my bed.

I knew what Ianthe wanted – she wanted me to give her a child. She wanted me to be bound to her; the son of the High Lord of Autumn. She would have been better off attaching herself to one of my brothers; they would have taken her gladly. But all of them had disappeared after Amarantha was defeated, and Cauldron knew where they were. Ianthe had to settle with me, the weakest and last of the stock, but the best she was going to get, with Tamlin already taken.

That night, I knew that she was going to come to my bed, because she fixed me with that look of hers, as she glided across the ballroom, toward where Feyre and I stood. That sultry look that turned my stomach, the sinister intention barely disguised in her eyes. It was all the warning I needed to know now was the time to go to my room, and prepare myself. I liked to get drunk before she arrived. It meant I never had to remember any of it, could even convince myself that it didn't happen…

Even so, the morning after, I knew she'd been in even before I opened my eyes. Of course, she hadn't stayed overnight – she would leave the moment she got what she wanted – but her scent remained hanging in the air.

I barely made it to the bathroom, before I was sick.

 _I'm going to start looking like Feyre,_ I thought, my head once more against the toilet bowl. The combination of Ianthe's lingering scent and last night's wine made the watery contents of my stomach heave, and I was sick again, my head pounding.

It took a while to find the courage to dress and descend down to the hall for breakfast. As I came into the room, Feyre looked up at me and laughed, the sound ricocheting through my ears.

"Did you have a good night, Lucien?" she asked sweetly, and I grumbled something, my eyes squinted against the bright light that was streaming through the high-windows. In his seat, Tamlin's own eyes were closed, and he looked as hungover as I felt.

I totally ignored Ianthe, who cast her eyes on me, a look of heavy satisfaction on her face. _I was your good night,_ she seemed to say.

I settled at my usual place, and served myself, Ianthe and Feyre chattering together as Tamlin pretended not to be sleeping in his seat. I ate quickly, needing to be out. I always went hunting after my nights with Ianthe, it was the only useful thing I could still do where I felt, for a moment, as if I was powerful again. As if I had a choice.

"You going out today, Lucien?" Feyre asked the dreaded question, and I looked up from my plate. Feyre's eyes were bright and hopeful. She was taking advantage of Tamlin's drowsy state to wriggle free.

"What gave me away?"

"Well, you're actually out of bed before lunch, for starters…" Feyre smiled. When she smiled like that, she almost looked herself again. "And you're inhaling your food, which means you're going out in a hurry."

I lowered my fork, shooting Tamlin a look. He was still unmoving, his eyes glazed, dead to everything by the pounding of his own hangover.

"I'm just going for a hunt.

"Can I come with you?"

The words were barely out of her mouth and Tamlin stirred, and looked up. He caught eyes with Ianthe, who immediately threw her arm around Feyre.

"But Feyre," she cried. "Today we're fitting the wedding dress! The tailors have come all the way from the Summer Court!"

"But—" Feyre began.

"The hunting Lucien is planning isn't the sort you're accustomed too," Tamlin said smoothly, and Feyre raised herself up.

"I've been hunting with Lucien before," she reminded. "When I was human. And before that, I hunted my woods for years. There's nothing Lucien could be hunting that I wouldn't have seen before."

 _Go on,_ I thought, looking at Tamlin, _admit that I'm not hunting game. Admit that I'm hunting the monsters from Under the Mountain. Tell her I'm looking for signs of the Attor._

"Feyre, he's not hunting game," Tamlin said, with a gentle smile. He shot me a look, and grinned. "He's 'hunting' a girl who was flirting with him in the village the other day. They've been 'hunting' a lot together."

 _You bastard._ I grinned back at Tamlin, like I was supposed to, even as I watched Feyre's cheeks tinge with pink.

"Oh," she said. "Oh…"

 _You bastard,_ I thought again, my whole stomach vaulting. I hadn't been able to make love since we'd gotten out from Under the Mountain, hadn't been able to touch another woman since Ianthe had started crawling into my bed.

"And there poor Lucien was, trying to be all discrete," Ianth crooned. "Hunting indeed. Lucky girl."

I stood very quickly. "Well now that's out of the bag," I said, speaking as quickly as I could, before I betrayed myself. "I'll be off. Enjoy the fitting, Feyre. I'll see you at dinner."

"Have fun Lucien!" Ianthe called after me, as I stalked out of the room, as quickly as I could.

* * *

I didn't catch anything on my hunt, though I caught the scent of a few things which led me north until I was close to the boarder. Unwilling to cross into my father's territory, I turned back again and returned home.

It was late by the time I came in, and by the hush of the house, I knew that I'd missed dinner. This, I didn't particularly mind; it meant I didn't have to see Ianthe or Tamlin, and most importantly, I didn't have to face Feyre.

Or so I thought, until I spotted one of her guards lurking about in the courtyard, and saw Tamlin's bride to be stood out on the terrace, gazing out at the night sky.

It seemed for the first time in a long time she'd dressed herself, wearing loose pyjama trousers and a long cotton chemise. Her feet were bare, and her hair loose.

She spotted me down below her, and without a word, I went up to join her.

"You're back late," she said. "Good hunting?" The twinkle in her eye seemed a little lack-luster, almost as much as the smile I threw at her.

"What are you doing out here? It's late."

"I couldn't sleep," Feyre replied, turning back to the night sky. It was littered with stars, and even I – with all my years of seeing them – had to admire how bright they were tonight. "It's so…peaceful out here."

 _Spacious,_ I thought. _Breathable. That's what you want to say. That your bedroom is suffocating, and you wish you could sleep outside._

I removed my cloak and slung it over her shoulders. The sudden weight of it seemed to surprise her, and she looked back at me.

"Can't have the bride getting a cold before the wedding, can we?" I asked, and she pulled the cloak tighter around her.

 _Cold and shivering in that dark, damp cell, clutching the guard's cloak to her, the only warmth I could give, the only thing I could offer before I was pulled away. Before anyone noticed that I was with her._

"Lucien?" Feyre's voice broke through, and I realised I'd frozen stock still. Feyre's pale eyes were narrowed with concern. "You're very pale."

"I just remember the last time I gave you a cloak," I said, surprising myself with my own confession.

Feyre nodded. Had her mind gone to the same place? I opened my mouth to apologise to her, to apologise for bringing it up, to apologise for not being able to do more, but she spoke over me.

"The wedding dress Ianthe chose for me is awful."

I blinked. "How awful?"

"I look…I look like…" Feyre huffed and then shook her head. "It's worse than the tent."

"Worse than the tent?" I whistled. "What, is it a marquee?"

Feyre laughed, and despite myself I joined her, the pair of us giggling stupidly. She shook her head, wiping her eyes.

"Apparently it's the height of fashion. You faeries really are an odd bunch."

"We faeries," I reminded her softly, and she sobered. "You don't have to wear it, Feyre. They can make you another one. There's still time."

"No, I…No, I'll wear it." Feyre leant against the banister of the terrace, her eyes back on the night sky. "Everyone's put so much effort into it all, and it's not the dress that's important…It's being married. Married to Tamlin," she repeated, almost as if to remind herself. "The wedding itself is about so much more than me and him…I understand that. We're a statement, a symbol of peace, of victory. The ceremony is all for them…But what happens afterwards, that's the bit that matters to me."

 _Oh, Ianthe's spun that very well, hasn't she?_ I thought, barely holding back my snarl. "It might surprise you Feyre, but you're allowed to be happy on your wedding day."

Feyre shot me a look. "I _will_ be happy."

"Fine," I said, giving in. If she didn't want to confess, if she couldn't bring herself to admit how much she hated it all, than what could I do? Maybe I was just reading too much into it.

I settled against the banister beside her, resting on my arms there and leaning forward. "You know," I said, trying for a light tone, "I often wonder, what would have happened if, instead of Tamlin, you'd fallen inlove with someone else when you came here."

Feyre's eyebrows raised. "And how likely was that?" she laughed. "For a start, you and Tamlin were the only contact I had with the High Fae until Fire Night…" she paused, and then shivered. "Even if Tamlin and I hadn't…Even if my feelings for him…Who else was there for me to fall inlove with?"

I shrugged, "I don't know," I winked at her. "You could have fallen inlove with me."

Feyre scoffed, and I threw my head back and laughed.

"Good to know I'm appreciated," I said, and Feyre knocked my arm.

"It's not like you could have ever loved me either!" she reminded. "You _hated_ me when I arrived."

"I didn't _hate_ you."

"You told Tamlin to kill me!"

"Oh, I was just being dramatic. I didn't mean it. Tamlin would have never hurt you, I knew that. Besides, dumping you somewhere and just attacking Amarantha seemed far easier than the alternative."

"The alternative? What, you mean me falling inlove with Tamlin?"

"No," my mouth curled with a smile, "I mean me having to teach Tamlin how to woo you, so you _would_ fall inlove with him."

Feyre giggled. I straightened.

"I'm serious; it was like trying to teach a dog to talk. 'Your hair is clean' – do you know how much I died inside when I heard him say that?"

Feyre was laughed freely now, unrestrained, her hair streaming in the wind. She laid a hand on my arm, steadying herself.

"I can only imagine what you suffered," she giggled. "But clearly it paid off." She wiggled her fingers, her engagement ring sparkling. "So thank you. Begrudgingly or not, you brought Tamlin and I together."

An uncomfortable feeling settled over me. I had brought them together, to a certain degree, yes. I had pushed Tamlin, and created opportunity, and done my utmost to encourage love to bloom. And Tamlin had barred all other men from the house, hiding the servants from view. Infact, he'd come close to barring me too, that day after Feyre and I returned from our first hunt together.

 _"Even if Tamlin and I hadn't…Even if my feelings for him…Who else was there for me to fall inlove with?"_

Would Feyre have fallen inlove with Tamlin, if they had met under natural circumstances? If there had been other men around, who might have taken her fancy, if there hadn't been constant interference from the wings pushing them together.

Hadn't we just forced them together to break the curse? Was that the centre of their relationship?

 _What does it matter now?_ I thought, trying to push away the feeling. I had enough to contend with, enough to feel guilty about. It didn't matterhow the feelings were developed, they were real now. All I had to do was look at her to see she loved him. Loved with a ferocity that had brought her down Under the Mountain, to her death. And Tamlin, he loved her too–

 _Tamlin's sobs rang in my ear, as he bowed over Feyre's broken body, limp and dead._

"Lucien?" Once again, Feyre brought me back.

"Sorry; I'm tired. I ought to go to bed. You too," I added. "You need your sleep."

Feyre's eyes darkened a little, and she looked longing out to the open sky. "I…Yes," she agreed. "It's late."


	3. Chapter 3

**Warnings for sexual content in this chapter. This chapter also contains lines and reference to events in the book.**  
 **Disclaimer: _A Court of Thorns and Roses & A Court of Mist and Fury_ is copyrighted to Sarah J. Maas. I am simply using these characters for** **story-telling purposes.**

 **THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO HAS REVIEWED SO FAR, YOU'RE THE BEST.**

* * *

"So, how did your trip to the village go?" Ianthe leant against the door-frame, staring at me through the dark.

"Get out," I said, keeping my eyes on the ceiling. I'd stretched myself out over the bed, my hand massaging the top of my right leg, which was still aching a little, despite having had ample time to heal. I healed slower these days, it seemed, since Amarantha had used her magic on me after the whipping.

"I heard Feyre found out about the naga attack." Ianthe ignored my command and stepped into the room, closing the door after her. I scowled, but refused to look in her direction. "And after Tamlin was so adamant you didn't tell anyone."

I ignored the tightening in my chest, pretending not to hear any of Ianthe's words. Tamlin had indeed been adamant that I kept the naga attack to myself. In-fact, he'd been down-right furious when I had limped over to him, after the fight.

 _"How could you let them attack you like that!? I thought you were a warrior!"_

 _"I'm sorry, Tam! They jumped me from behind—I was lucky to survive."_

 _"You don't survive on luck, Lucien, you survive on skill. I thought that's what I was getting, when welcomed you into my court."_

 _"I'm sorry, Tam."_

 _"Now you're limping. Feyre's going to notice, she's going to worry, ask questions—"_

 _"I'll tell her I fell off my horse!"_

 _"You do that." His claws dug into my shoulder. I wasn't sure if he knew he'd summoned them or not, his grip vice-like. "Don't give me a reason not to trust you, Lucien."_

"How did Feyre react?" Ianthe snapped me back to the present, and I closed my eyes, not bothering to reply. Ianthe already knew how Feyre had reacted, half of the sentries set to guard her also answered to Ianthe, spies to both the High Lord and the conniving bitch who was serving as advisor.

I could still hear Feyre's accusatory tone, still feel her hands on me as she gave me a shove.

 _"A tumble off your damned horse?"_

"Tamlin really does put a lot of pressure on you, doesn't he?" Ianthe sighed, coming to the bed and perching on the side of it. My skin crawled to have her so close, and a flash of one of our blind, angry fuck-sessions came to my mind, turning my stomach. She'd pinned me down in this position a few days ago, held my wrists as she's ridden me and I'd lain, waiting for my body to climax so I could be rid of her.

The memory made me want to stand and go to the window, but I didn't give Ianthe the satisfaction of seeing me finch away.

"Did the villagers play their part?" Ianthe asked sweetly, and I growled.

"You're a fucking bitch."

"She's going to be the wife of the High Lord," Ianthe said prettily. The rebuilding she has to do is more important than putting together a few houses…She's rebuilding the hope of the people, and the power of the Spring Court. And for that, she needs to find her place here…All the rest of it was distracting her. This will help, in the long run."

It was an effort not to sit bolt upright and strike her. I had never laid a hand on a woman before, but for Ianthe I would make an exception. She wasn't a woman, she was a snake.

"I don't know why you're complaining," Ianthe continued. "You stuck to your script perfectly. 'We need rules, and rankings, and _order,_ if we're going to stand a chance of rebuilding' - isn't that what you said?"

So they'd been watching us in the forest too? I shouldn't have been surprised. There was nowhere in the Spring Court I could go where Tamlin's ears wouldn't follow me, especially not when Feyre was concerned.

It had taken considerable effort to convince Tamlin to let her go out. I knew a part of him was half-conscious of what he was doing to her, but the blazing fear in his eyes when he couldn't immediately reach her, or keep her safe, always won over.

 _"She's just going to keep asking, Tam! Let her go out. She needs this."_

 _"What she needs, is to be safe!"_

 _"I understand—Cauldron, you_ know _how much I understand—But you can't keep her locked up here forever. Eventually she needs to go back into the world—"_

 _"—And she will! But she's vulnerable now! Our enemies—"_

 _"—Time doesn't pass for her like it does for us Tam! We're centuries old, she's only just become a High Fae! A few months—years—is nothing to us, but it's an eternity to her. You need to show her this adjustment period won't last forever. You need to show her that her future isn't stuck behind the walls of this house!"_

 _"I am your High Lord, Lucien! I don't need to do_ anything _you tell me!"_

 _"Tam, please. I'll stay with her, alright? I'll keep her safe."_

 _"You can't even handle a group of naga!"_

Ianthe had eventually settled the affair with her own solution; a way to let Feyre out, and simultaneously curb her desire to keep asking to leave…Send her to a village, and show her that she wasn't needed there. Show her that she wasn't wanted.

 _Sneaky, manipulative bitch._ I'd swallowed down the curses that had pressed against my mouth, only because I knew that this was the best chance Feyre was going to get, and if anyone could convince Tamlin now, it was Ianthe. My council had long since lost any power.

Besides, maybe—and a small part of me didn't want to admit it, because it meant agreeing with Ianthe—but maybe it was good for Feyre to see the world was repairing itself. Good to remind her that she didn't need to feel responsible for it all anymore. Maybe, in the long-run, it would help her find her place as Tamlin's wife…Maybe it would force her to confront what was really bothering her, and finally do something about it.

Because Feyre didn't really want to rebuild a village. Feyre wanted to be free, and to atone for the guilt of a sacrifice she'd been forced to make. A sacrifice she refused to talk about, even when I'd given her the opportunity, even when I'd tried to get her to speak to Tamlin…

 _"Talk to him about it—really talk to him, Feyre. You'll figure it out_." I'd begged her, as she'd pushed me. Pushed me without knowing any of the implications of what she was asking, without even considering the magnitude of what she wanted from me. " _Don't ask me to pick._ "

She hadn't liked that, but then she didn't like much of anything I said or did these days. It didn't change the facts. Feyre didn't stand a chance of healing the world, until she admitted that she needed healing first, and that wasn't something I could tell her. She was still far too stubborn for her own good, in that respect.

The only one who could give her what she needed was Tam. And the only one who could save Tam from this endless pit of paranoia and obsession and supressed rage, was Feyre.

And so, I'd gone along with the plan, even though it had made me uncomfortable, even though Feyre had pushed and pressed me and made it hard to stay on script. Even though she had spat spiteful words that had hurt me, probably more than she knew.

 _"For all that you refuse to interact with Ianthe, you certainly sound a great deal like her."_

I'd hated Feyre a little bit for that. I'd hated myself more, for opening my mouth and letting Ianthe slip out.

"Tamlin doesn't know what a friend he has in you," Ianthe suddenly purred, and leaning over, she rested her head on my chest, like a lover.

I shoved her off and rose in a single movement, feeling sick. "Don't touch me!" I spat, retreating to the wall as Ianthe knelt on the bed. She was smiling coyly, as if this was a game. "Don't touch me. Get out."

"Don't be like that."

" _Get out!"_ I roared, and in the next second she had leapt off the bed and was pressed into me, pushing me back against the wall. She put her finger to my lips.

"Not so loud," she breathed, as I pushed at her. "You'll attract an audience. Feyre's in the room down the hall…How do you think she'll react if she comes to investigate, and sees me coming out of your room, looking like this?" She reached down and undid her clothes, letting them fall over her shoulders, her breasts exposed. "Do you want people to know? Do you _want_ them to know what we've been doing? Do you want it to get back to Tamlin, that Feyre saw me running from your room, clutching my clothes around me, crying? What sort of impression do you think that would give?"

I closed my eyes and turned my head away. Fire burnt inside of me, and I wanted to reach for that power and unleash it. I wanted to send Ianthe up in flames.

She undid my belt, and slipped her hands into my trousers. I didn't look, didn't want to acknowledge as she moved her hands against me. My body betrayed me, roused by the stimulation, and I knew she took that as a victory. A sign that of consent.

I didn't know the full extent of the permission Tamlin had given her, in regards to me…I didn't know if he'd merely said it was fine for her to pursue, or if I'd been gifted, like some sort of stallion for breeding. And I never asked either, because I didn't want to know. I wanted to live in the illusion that the world was oblivious to what Ianthe was doing. I wanted to live in the illusion that Tamlin still thought of me as his friend, below the layers of anger and suspicion.

 _If I push her away now, she'll make a spectacle. She'll do things, say things that will turn Tamlin against me. Turn Feyre against me,_ I told myself, as I felt Ianthe kneel down.

Her mouth took over from her hand, and I was humiliated by the pleasure. Humiliated by my own arousal.

"Stop it," I said. Begged.

She moved quicker, taking me deeper. My knees went weak. Why did she make my body so hard, when I felt so sick? How did she arouse me, when her touch made my flesh crawl.

"Stop." I fisted my hands into the curtain beside me, holding myself up. "Ianthe—" I couldn't do this. I couldn't do this whilst I was sober. I couldn't do it like this. "Please."

Her eyes flashed up to mine, her mouth around me, and I could have sworn I saw her smile. She liked that I was pleading with her. She liked that I hated this. Liked that my body enjoyed it.

She liked my shame.

Her mouth moved quicker, my words fuelling her. She touched me, as she sucked, and touched herself, and I closed my eyes and turned my head away.

I ripped the curtain down as I came to orgasm, and Ianthe laughed, sitting back, her lips parted and wet.

"It's good for you to let go, isn't it?" she said, and she kissed me before dressing herself and leaving.

I didn't come to dinner that night.


End file.
